


Conquest

by avercroft



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous Content, Conquistador Spain, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Rough Body Play, Weird Pairing, Yandere! Spain, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avercroft/pseuds/avercroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in a World Conference, Spain's outward facade has crumbled while he muses on his past. Taking a new look at Canada, he is spurned, angered, and prompted into action. He had and lost America. Canada, well, he never even had a chance...or does he? Canada/Yandere!Spain. Lil' on the dark side here.   One shot for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquest

Spain, a lively, colorful nation, has his usual happy-go-lucky face on. As always. His lips remain carved into a permanent, optimistic smile, his green eyes alight, twinkling as they dance over each speaker in the meeting. The boardroom was characteristically dull today, with altogether too much military drab... the only real excitement resounding in the exaggerated voices, caricatures of the various countries gathered here.

He is reclined against his seat, relaxed, his auburn hair naturally unkempt, while his posture is undeniably sturdy, perhaps unshakable. The polished heels of his boots rest on the edge of the conference table, delicately, he would likely add, with class, unlike Prussia's garish scene from across the room.

Viridian eyes narrow for a moment, likely unnoticed, while the cogs in the nation's mind ground harshly, painfully against one another. Somewhere it seemed, a gear just kept slipping.

He watches as Prussia and Germany are torn apart by the aftermath of their failed attempt, jaded by idealism and hopeless patriotism. The World Summit this week concerned just what the consequences would be for these poor losers and those who had joined their petty ranks. As though they had ever known anything about conquest.

"Barbarians," he muttered sharply, uncertain whether his thought was voiced or remained in the turbulence of his mind. These people, these backwater tribes pretending they knew something about war with their advances in weaponry and crude, boastful language. Really, most of mainland Europe followed suit, taken in with their bullshit. Civilized. Ha. Now that's a sacrilegious thought. He crosses himself in disdain.

No, they dwelt in the mud while he built palaces. Their "conquests," their "crusades" consisted of childlike bickering among themselves. Giving and taking land in an endless game of tug of war. Never keeping, never truly taking. Most of them had never even heard of the new world, no, they scarcely believed it.

His gold had proved those imbeciles so very, very wrong.

America perks up, pale eyes glancing at Spain from behind his glasses, and behind his station at the head of table, altogether too optimistic.

"What was that Spain?"

As the world turned to him, he feigns surprise, wide-eyed, damn near innocent. Though the urge to vomit was so much more appealing. Oh imagine that, the bastard takes notice to him. His face shifted from polite shock to smiling pleasantly, as he always did. Spain nods, recovering with practiced ease, "I just said we have to consider how difficult of a time these nations have and will continue to go through to rebuild."

As though they knew anything about pain.

Some countries nodded in approval, while others grumbled with thoughts of vengeance and recompense more clearly on their minds. In that matter, they certainly weren't alone.

Pain? The nation laughs to himself. In the midst of more important wars, he was neglected, left alone to fall apart to the influence of mainland politics.

Civil war? More than of few of the gathered nations had experienced it, but few were so unprepared.

The founder of the new world, the gateway to intercontinental trade, the reaper of native peoples, he who brought countless leaders to their knees, the importer of every one of the world's first luxuries…

His palaces burnt to the ground, his daughters whored out and abused by English and French royalty... his faith, blasphemed and crippled.

And at last, long after he was all but obliterated by his rivals, Civil War began.

His people destroyed him, as the last vestiges of his stability crumbled beside city walls.

Somewhere in his time-line Spain fractured, shattered almost perfectly in two, leaving behind a defeated, tomato-loving peasant, with a bitter killer lingering just below a reformed facade.

Historically, he's watched, amused, as the leading nations tore apart and pieced together Europe once again. In his mind, he laughed, having watched the scene so very, very many times. And yet, it never got old. It's a sick kind of voyeurism he knows, but it leaves a wonderful, coppery taste in the back of his mouth.

His time would come again. If nothing else, he knew of this. Their profound, continuing weakness and self-absorbency assured him of that. Never-mind the naivete, he muses, half-heartedly listening to America sounding off about human rights and freedom, when in reality the situation was little more than an age-old pissing contest.

The boardroom door cracks open slightly, with merely a quiet creak and space enough for Canada to slip through, unnoticed by the majority. It was business as usual.

Spain watches the delicate blond nation enter, loosing interest in another one of England's self-satisfying tirades.

Canada looks timidly about the room, noting immediately the tension and contesting voices that fill it. He is not surprised to find a smile on Spain's face, but it's reassuring none the less. He doesn't expect to be noticed, he never does, but he makes his way to stand beside the smiling man regardless. Maybe, just maybe, he could contract a little bit of that happiness the older man always seemed to exude.

“It's...umm... nice to see someone smiling," he stammers quietly, clutching that fuzzy white bear of his, just speaking directly to others seemed to require a great deal of courage for Canada. Spain imagines that the other nation is merely bracing for the constant rejection the others readily give, doesn't stop him from continually trying though. Spain withholds a smirk as a wave of almost pleasant confusion washes over Canada's pale face... Frankly, he is surprised when the older nation doesn't startle as most did when he spoke to them.

"Yes…" Spain replies flatly, looking up at the younger man, head cocked slightly to the side, emphasizing his strong jawline, even in this shitty lighting, while his eyes coldly calculate the shy figure in front of him. What would the boy say next, he wonders.

Canada seems to have stilled himself, pleased but maybe just a bit uneasy that he was recognized. He swallows hard and continues, deciding that maybe this was a good thing. Spain always seemed like someone kind, someone maybe even he could talk to... He starts, “I guess...” he pauses, _why_ is it so difficult, “when you're not really involved... it makes things a lot easier right?”

Spain considers a sort of sad truth in the other man's statement while Canada continues, “There's never really anything for me to say since I don't matter anyway, so I can sort of just be here!" It felt good to say it for some reason, and it makes Canada smile, his violet eyes twinkling, he is well adjusted to his plight, after all.

"I suppose…." Spain responds, eyes casting downwards in thought. Though you know damn right well you hate it.

Canada shrugs, evidently pleased with his progress. Perhaps he could eventually hold a full conversation with Spain. That could be nice. He nods appreciatively to the older nation, a lingering pink dusting his cheeks as he makes a brief bow, and quickly darts out of the other side of the boardroom, seeking a nice warm cup of coffee... It might still his nerves, and no one would mind anyway, none the less notice him leave.

Spain hears the door click softly as Canada leaves the room, though he remains focused, staring deeply into the wood grain. Something in his mind was taut, painful. It snaps as his hand suddenly clenches into a first, his nails digging into the skin, drawing tiny droplets of blood to the surface. Beneath the sallow green of his eyes, there was barely contained rage. It was red and violent, more so than any flag the bullfighters waved to elicit an onslaught of carnage.

**Somehow in that moment...Canada…had looked so very much like America.**

And America, just the thought, makes Spain's insides seethe; boiling, and churning bodily against himself. His mouth had gone dry, the feel of itchy cotton, snaking its way down his throat, choking at his voice, his heart, his everything.

America, incited something heated in him between violence and lust, but an insatiable kind, never quenched thanks to the course of history.

Oh yes, he had had America. He found him, maybe not first but an extraordinarily powerful second. He possessed the beautiful young boy fiercely, and all benefits were first his alone. He built the foundation, the steps, the path for any other nation to come and reap glory from it's fine shores.

And yet, his so called father? No, it was not Spain. It was England. He resists the urge to spit at the name

That grueling dog, who had so meekly, hesitantly followed in Spain's footsteps only to undo every feat of prowess Spain have ever accomplished. He was evicted from his own, his America. There was war. Yes.

There was blood, though never enough.

But America was torn from Spain's grasp, a piece of him that it seemed he would never, ever, be able to reconstitute.

Canada on the other hand, he had never…

A heated gasp, a quick intake of air on Spain's lips as his mind suddenly goes silent, a cog clicking into place, the whole machine having stilled. He stares forward, as though possessed, at no sight any other person in the room could observe. His eyes darkened subtly as a small smile danced venomously across his lips.

He had never even had a chance…

He was on his feet before he had come to any kind of sense, his movements perpetually graceful, swift, intended. The door opens and closed with another click, left unnoticed by the bickering room of nations…

* * *

Canada hummed to himself as he always did, since there was no one to talk to, as he trotted down the hall from the boardroom into a small lounge, secured by a slotted office door.

The blond enters the room, finding himself in somewhat decent spirits, closing the door behind him after he locates the light switch. He puts the bear down, patting it's head before it wanders off to explore, it was good at that. But it always came back, and he was thankful for that one thing. His pet was the closest thing he had to a friend. Almost one of the things Canada didn't have.

Canada smiles, shaking the thought as he always does, having trained himself to not consider the deeply disturbing connotation of these and other thoughts he has from time to time. He focuses himself, affirming. He did good today. Already a few sentences and he just got here. That'll be it, he's sure but...

He busies himself pacing over to the coffee machine, a half-full pot looks to have been recently brewed, a red light on the device indicating that it maintained temperature. Perfect. He pulls a paper cup and gingerly fills it, trying to keep his hand steady. He adds his cream languidly...considering how long he'd hole himself up back here. Maybe he'd eventually get brave again, and try to talk to Spain... but he was doubtful.

What else did he have to say anyway? _Hey, I'm a completely desperate loser, please pity me and keep talking because I'm hopelessly lonely and you might be a real sucker for that._ Canada could feel his temperature rising with his temper, he was irritated...with himself more than anything. It wasn't as though they had any reason to notice the frail nation or remotely listen to anything he had to say. Especially not when **he** was there _._

His brother. His loud, obnoxious, often unintelligent brother somehow stole the spotlight.

Canada has difficulty putting a lid on his coffee cup, his hands shake as he mentally corrects himself.

Well, actually, America stole everything.

Attention.

Commerce.

**Family.**

He gasped as feels the reinforced paper crack, feeling cup's structure give as a hiss escapes his lips. The drink wasn't quite scalding, but it felt it...he looks down at his right hand, a burned, flushed pink, the muddle of cream and coffee coating his fingers.

The cup slips out of his fingers, to the floor, the rest of its contents pooling at his feet, but the nation stands still, violet eyes examining his own hand, stricken somewhere between fascination and disgust.

England was just as much his father as he was America's. And yet Canada had all but been abandoned in terms of partnership and communication. To favor the better son, the one with the better innovations, the leading economy.

Oh yeah, Dad, that's going to crash and burn, but you are both too stupid to see it.

Even France, his other, kinder parent, had been whisked away by America's innate personality. The flash and colored lights. His much admired, supposed “freedom.”

That damn statue made him sick. It's monumental scale, its love made him fiercely jealous. Dark tendrils curling around his heart and squeezing mercilessly each time he was forced to see it.

The nation sighs, shaking his head, pale blond locks in disarray as he resigns himself to his usual blank smile.

Well, no point getting caught up in unchangeable things, right? He guesses he should do something about this burn.

He turns, only to be crushed forcibly against the counter by something else, tall, sturdy, as his eyes open wide in nervous shock.

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts he had failed to notice the other nation enter the room. And Spain, as far as he could tell...though it didn't feel like the Spain he knew, had pinned him back against the sharp edge of the counter, the flat plane digging painfully into his lower back. The older nation tightly held him in place, one frail arm had been seized and held behind his back, the other, still messy from his little outburst, was clenched to his side by the wrist.

Spain, hovering over him, had said nothing, breathing in staggered gasps, while his eyes seemed to digest the sight before him. The character of the man's expression was making Canada squirm in nervousness. All he read of it was hunger.

"Umm….Sp…Spain?" Canada finally garnered the courage to mutter, trembling underneath the heat of the other man's intense gaze.

"Yes?" Spain's head tilts to the side, as though to gauge things from another angle, brown locks falling against his tan skin, with something calculating in his eyes.

Canada was colder than America. To the touch for sure, he could feel the dramatic difference of his own heat against the boy's skin. But the cold ran deeper than that, it was there behind his eyes, in how easily he could go blank and just continue. There was something he liked about that.

"WHAT?!” Canada realizes that his voice came out more startled and emotive than he'd have like... he stumbles... “umm…I mean... what are y..y..you doing?" His eyes were still wide, struggling to comprehend what he was looking at. This was not like Spain, what had gotten into him? He was always so…happy. I mean, he, well he was Spain! He wasn't this...

The older man's fingers dig into his soft flesh, his nails curling at the skin, causing Canada to wince underneath him, a tiny whimper escapes his lips. Spain seems unaffected by the evident pain he's inflicting.

"I've...never. Gotten. A chance…" each word from Spain's mouth was bitter and stagnant, and hanging in the air, as though suspended in heavy fog.

Canada shakes his head, he doesn't understand. And he was starting to become frightened. More than that, terrified. This was **not** normal and Spain was half-smiling, half-grimacing at him.

"You know…" Spain trails off, releasing for a moment the arm behind Canada's back to trail his fingers against the younger nation's soft hair, along his cheek, pausing just under his chin. A look of consideration in his eyes. "You look so very much like America…."

He feels himself tense, his muscle clench. Maybe he didn't exactly mean it, but it was reflex as Canada twitched violently at the accusation, one he had heard a few too many times. Hell, they usually just thought he was his brother...

"I do **not**!" he growls, pushing forward against Spain, slapping the older man far harder than he should of with a resounding smack. Then again, as soon as he's done it, watching the blood rush the bruised cheek, reddening it, Canada's knows he made a mistake.

Spain's amused expression disappears, as he forcefully regains hold of the other nation's free wrist, pulling him briefly against his own body, before smashing that frail form back against the counter.

Canada is breathless as he was suddenly pressed so close the other man, he is surrounded with heat. The impact as he is pushed away jars him with a pained whine, making it plain difficult to breathe. He didn't know what to expect anymore, the sudden movement dislodged his glasses from his face, falling with a light metallic chink as they hit the tile floor.

He winces as he hears it. The frame and contained glass crunching underneath one of Spain's heels and Canada flinches again, anger beginning to fill his violet eyes. He was accustomed to a sort of abuse but..

"I was going to say…" his elder continues, the green of his eyes shining, fixated ahead of him, as he leans his head in closer. “You are **nothing** alike. You are so much…." He pauses, swallowing, taking a unsteady, shallow breath, just beside Canada's ear... “... **colder."**

The older nation spoke in a way that was heady and erotic, Canada admitted that focusing was becoming incredibly difficult, he was being quickly overcome with rage and something else he had trouble placing, but he had little time to ponder as the other locked eyes with his own. Canada didn't know what he looked like, but he was certain of the violence he felt towards his oppressor at this exact moment. Oppression...that feeling, being trapped, controlled...it wasn't something Canada was fond of... he could feel it burn in his irises no matter how hard it was to breathe.

Spain chuckled darkly at the sight below him, "There's madness in those eyes, Matthew."

Canada finds himself balking at his given name, what gave this bastard the right…

Spain's response is satisfied grin, pulling Matthew's hand close to his face, by the wrist he wass bruising. "Not that I'm complaining…"

In some sick parody of a knight taking a maiden's hand for a kiss, Matthew couldn't help but feel ill, paling as Spain's tongue glides over the back of his hand, lapping at the sticky residue from his crushed coffee.

The older nation is making pleased sound, his voice a low purr. “Mmm. Bitter. Should have guessed.” Matthew knows he is disgusted but he feels heat rushing to his face none the less. He whimpers as Spain takes his thumb into his mouth, before pulling away with a slick popping sound. He's observing him again, those eyes, considering. "I know the trouble that Alfred causes you…"

"You don't know shit!” Matthew stammers back, eyes alight, quickly having had enough of this. "He's my brother, you son of a bitch!"

"True… “ Spain makes an approving noise. “But he is destroying you…" Spain has difficulty resisting a smile. He's enjoying all this toying dialogue, and oh, how the other man was so defensive of those who abused him.

Then Matthew spat at him. "No worse than he destroyed you." The younger nation laughs, a bit manic, braver than he thought he was. Spain is now the shocked one, eyeing his prey with surprise as he boldly continues. "Should have stuck to the south, you might have actually survived."

Spain's eyes narrowed, growling, his face suddenly closer to the other nation's. "Or hide away in the north like you? Stay quiet, let my self be a pawn to rest of the world?” He scoffs. “I think not..."

Matthew sighs, frustrated, his eyes casting downwards, not willing to continue watching this, or playing whatever game Spain was so insistent upon.

It is a moment before Spain speaks again. Matthew refuses to look even as Spain's voice comes out just a bit softer. "S'pose it wasn't all your choice. Arthur was certainly content leaving you in that bitter region to fend for yourself in the cold..."

Matthew tensed, he didn't want this to affect him. A string of pain pulled at his heart, clenching. This wasn't fair.

Spain sighed, breathing out deeply and deliberately, releasing some of the tension in his limbs. "At least you kept most of your land I suppose,” he muses. “He destroyed, no, leveled the rising power in Europe, why wouldn't he pick on you?"

Something about older man's voice was suddenly less sadistic, more genuine, making Matthew pause. He bit his lip.

"I don't know," he responds as well as he can, finding the courage to risk a glance up again, to find Spain hanging his head limply despite his grasp on Matthew's arms. His eyes took notice to something hard in the profile of the older nation, something of defeat having etched itself into his face. He isn't sure how long he stares.

When Spain finally looks up, Matthew isn't ready for it. Violet met rusty green for a second, prolonged time. Matthew stares into eyes that all too well reveal a nation with a violent rift in his history. One eye was tired, worn, while the other was alight, damaged, thirsting for some kind of vengeance. Both, and it was what startled Matthew the most, screamed of desperation in a way that hurt to look at.

Their eyes linger together for a moment, before Spain breaks the gaze off with a shake of his head, casting his eyes down, reminiscing, as his grip on the other nation loosens, before slipping entirely.

Canada's eyes widen as the other man's arms fell to his sides.

He should have ran. God, he should have ran. He should have called for help rather than stand there, stupefied in a small room with a mad nation, a space that had already proven more dangerous than he could have ever imagined.

He certainly didn't know why his body would freeze, suddenly feeling cold, locking itself up angrily. He felt nothing but tension, so much more than before. He didn't know what he was doing as he grit his teeth, staring furious as he muttered “Antonio...” with more venom than he had ever mustered in his life. The older nation looked up, startled, uncertain for the first time in minutes.

He was knocked back against the small table in the room, as the young nation propelled himself against him, furiously, as though lashing against the lack of contact. He back connected with surface of the tabletop, and Antonio released a surprised grunt as he was overwhelmed by the ordinarily shy man in front of him.

Matthew didn't know why he did it, as he crashed himself into Spain, clutching the man's shirt, tugging ferociously at his collar, pulling him near, closing the gap between them and forcing his mouth against the older nation's.

Antonio's eyes widened as his mouth was attacked, though chastely. The younger man simply stood there, looking so frail but determinedly holding his ground, clutching him so desperately, like he might crumble, his lips firm against his elder, though maybe shaking just a bit. The older nation felt his eyes slip closed, sighing into the other briefly, returning the gesture soft but firm, having forgotten what something so simple had felt like. He found one of his hands acting of its own accord, carefully brushing through Matthew's pale hair. Neither could find the will to move, and didn't know how long they stood that way, until breaking apart with a harsh gasp, needing air.

Matthew's grip loosened, staring upwards, meeting his eyes again. It was perpetually silent as they remained close, knowingly standing on uncertain ground. And then it was all at once as something snapped. It was like electricity on Antonio's lips as his eyes locked with the violet ones before him, watching something akin spark there and catch aflame. He couldn't keep to himself as he entangled the younger nation's hair between his fingers, attacked the open, yielding mouth before him.

Matthew's small whimper of surprise was muffled by the gap between them closing again, as he was pulled closer, demanding. He felt nothing but heat, raw energy as the other man's skilled tongue plunged into his mouth, tracing his contours as though frenzied. Matthew was surprised to find he could taste the other man, something specific, hints of spice and honey. He was quickly becoming intoxicated, too flustered and without energy to protest. Well, he was well past the conclusion that protesting was no longer a thing he was interested in. If he had been thinking at all. He suspected not as he couldn't control his own voice. A low, pleased murmur from the back of his throat seemed to occur of its own accord.

A light growl in response comes from the older nation as he pulls away suddenly, causing Matthew to gasp and stumble slightly onto him

Antonio pulled away suddenly, causing Matthew to gasp and stumble slightly onto him, between his legs, where he was perched against the table. The older nation is looking down, regarding his prize curiously, a dark eyebrow raised.

Those violet eyes were somewhere between desperate and afraid, his hands curled up against Antonio's chest, his pale skin flushed maddeningly at the checks, bottom lip already reddened and swollen from his ministrations. This pleased the elder nation, though some confusion still lingered behind his growing lust.

"Why?..." came slowly from his lips, Antonio's lips, rasping as he continued to eye the other nation. One hand rising up to cover the smaller ones against his chest.

Matthew looked up at the sudden question, his frame trembling, coming to realize under the pressure of those violent green eyes, that he had no idea what he was doing.

He had no idea.

But he didn't want to consider. No. Did it matter?

The smaller nation crushes himself against the other's chest in response, burying his face into the wrinkles of fabric, while his arms clawed around the others back, tugging at his coat, fists clenched in the material.

Matthew's embrace takes him aback, surprised once again for the first time in so long until a pair of sharp, violet eyes gazed up at him.

 **Demanding**.

Actually demanding. Defensively. Accusatory.

Why the fuck did he need a reason?

Beneath that, something pleading wavered below the surface as Matthew stood on his toes, bringing his lips near the other's ear.

"P...please?" his voiced had cracked, his face incredibly flushed, hot to the touch, embarrassing him further as he continued to cling weakly to his coat.

Antonio's breath caught in his throat. As though the other nation knew just how appealing the act of begging was to his elder.

Reasons? Reasons could go to hell.

Antonio grasped him tightly, encircling his smaller shoulders, claiming the mouth that had so shyly spoken with a aroused grunt.

Matthew whimpered, as the other resumed the dominance he so evidently craved, biting not so gently at his lips while his fingers had at some point slipped underneath his shirt and now crawled up his back before raking back down. The dull bite of nails against his skin elicits a quiet moan from the younger nation. His breath hitches in his throat as he is pushed forcefully a few feet back, against the counter. He scarcely felt the counter digging into his back in a familiar niche, the electricity from the Spaniard all but blocking anything else. The taller man ground mercilessly against him, between his legs. His head was spinning as he felt the heat from the others groin, a hard length making itself well known as Antonio continued to crush their bodies together. The contact, even through the fabric, was almost too much for Matthew as another moan escapes him, breathy and desperate.

He gasps as the elder's tongue escapes from his eager mouth and moves to his neck where each breath lay hot and thick as Antonio bit and caressed his way from Matthew's ear all the way to the subtle indents at the base of his shoulder.

It was feeling all too good for the younger man. Maybe too good. Something...just...

Matthew found himself sighing against the other man's ministrations..."This is madness...you know?" It caused the other to stop solidly in his tracks, straightening himself against the other nation, eyes flashing in contempt.

"No." he responded sharply. No he didn't know, taking a handful of Matthew's collar in his hand and yanking the surprised Canadian out of his musings to all but throw him forward onto the tile.

The blonde had been unprepared for the violence, his arm had extended to try to maintain balance, but instead came to swipe the coffee maker off the counter with a resounding crash and shatter of glass as he found his torso connecting with cold tile, elbows hitting first with a painful crack.

He had grunted at the impact, curling himself together as to somehow negate the painful ache, before looking up.

Antonio had yet to move, icily regarding him on the floor, not unlike watching a dog in its place.

Matthew's eyes narrowed, he didn't take kindly to the thought, rising only slightly as he moved toward the other without pause. Grasping the bottom edge of Spain's shirt with two stern hands, he yanked without concern, bringing the the other man down to his side, with a hollow thunk as the brunette's head connected to the hard floor.

Antonio had been taken off his feet with quite an impressive turn of events, as his head snapped back against the tile, pain resounding dully. It was in a way somehow satisfying.

He grunted as weight was put upon him and his breathing tightened. The younger man had straddled him, his hands gripping the fabric just at Antonio's neck, pulling enough to make it hard to breathe. He observed the wet lines running down from those violet eyes. There was hurt there, damage, not altogether unlike himself.

They found themselves gazing at each other, in simultaneous wonder. Is this what it would be like?

Playing out every bit of misery, every injustice?

Antonio reached a hand upward, brushing away Matthew's hair from his eyes, to carefully rub away at the damp trail he found there, letting his hand rest against the contour of his face.

Matthew raised a hand quizzically, cautiously laying it over top the other's, just against his cheek and holding it there in silence.

He nods slowly, though he's unsure of why, leaning down over the older nation to softly kiss his tan forehead.

Antonio breathed out slowly, relishing at the feeling of the younger man's lips. It was a good moment. Satisfying.

His leg hooks suddenly under Matthew's as he grabs the other nation by the shoulders and roughly flips him. Straddling the blonde, he pins his arms just above his head, green eyes flashing before he returns the gesture softly, pressing his lips to Matthew's forehead.

The Canadian may have tried to speak but scarcely had a chance as the other crashed onto him, radiating heat that was slowly devouring him. Antonio's fingers tugged at his hair while he savored the other man's mouth, but was quickly discontent, his hands wandering under Matthew's t-shirt only briefly, before tugging it off entirely. He sat up, making quick work of his own coat, tossing it to the side and hastily undoing his button-up, the fabric slipping down his tan shoulders.

Matthew's mouth was suddenly dry, he exhales, breathless, staring. The older man still hadn't gotten his shirt completely off but he couldn't prevent himself from touching him. His abdomen was tanned, strong underneath his splayed pale fingers. His eyes didn't miss the scars, he had no doubt his face fell slightly as he caught eye of each one... Not today. The younger nation stilled himself, someday he'd memorize them. This wasn't the time. His hand wandered over the warm skin in front of him as Antonio finally managed to get his arms out of the sleeves. Green eyes smoldered down at him, the older man's breathing was heavy, flush beginning to creep across his cheeks.

Matthew lurched forward, his hands making for the brunette's hair as he straddled his lap, pressing them together, eliciting a jolt of pleasure that ran straight through his core. He wasn't alone as the older nation made a sound Matthew wasn't aware he needed to hear so badly. He ground his hips downward as strong arms encircled his shoulders, pulling him closer and reconnecting their needy mouths with a hum of approval. The Canadian found his eyes slipping shut, quickly loosing himself in the other man's heat. Each push of their strained groins against each other was making him whimper and he couldn't contain it. Antonio's hands were all over him, exploring his smooth edges, leaving hot trails of pressure, the sensations were nearly too much. He was vaguely aware of his pants being undone, his zipper swiftly tugged down. He wasn't ready when Antonio grasped him.

The flash of white heat sent his mind into oblivion. As he slowly became aware again, his mouth was open, god knows what sound he'd made. Coming down, his body tingled, still shuddering...as he looked up to find Antonio staring wide-eyed and breathless at him, deep red tinging his cheeks and ears, the tip of his nose, his hands still firmly on Matthew's hips, having slipped just below the waist line of his jeans. It startles Matthew how much the other man looks like he's about to fall apart when he finally speaks, murmuring with shaking breath.

“Dios...” He takes another few staggered breaths. Matthew notices now that he's not the only one shaking. Antonio's face lowers to take the other nation's mouth with a low moan, dragging his tongue across, biting into his lower lip. His voice is barely a breathy whisper as his head ducks into Matthew's hair, planting kisses against his pink ear. “Dios...do you... need me that badly?”

Matthew cried out softly, pleadingly...

A low rumble of approval came from the back of the Spaniard's throat as he kissed a trail down the other nation's pale chest, pushing him backwards, carefully this time, his hand behind the blonde's head, carefully lowering it to the tile. Matthew's head was spinning again, clearly there was nothing he could do. He felt a sweet kiss planted into his palm, before his pants were tugged down just enough for a hot mouth to envelop him.

Yes, it would be like this.

They couldn't tell how long they were there, wincing and murmuring against each other's inflictions, again and again without pause.

Antonio prayed aloud for the first time in years as he entered the other nation, while the tabletop suffered gouges against the Canadian's desperately grasping hands as his back arched upwards of its own accord. It was too quick, over too soon but sublime none the less, as they collapsed back down to the floor in a sweating heap.

A glass coffee pot lay shattered, stained pieces, sharp and scattered on the floor glint not far from a tangle of limbs, both panting, trying to regain their ragged breath against the cool surface of the checkered tile floor.

For days after, Matthew would dream heatedly of blood.

Antonio would dream sweetly for days, of nothing.

* * *

In the country somewhere, in a poorly lit room, where only one window frames the sun, light shines down and casts itself over a small games table. On it, an ornately carved chess boards rests, each of it's pieces standing silently in their respective square, saluting their king without fail.

Near them, sit two figures, one, a proud conquistador. He is weathered, but something in his rugged face and easy smile suggests a commitment to hope, to the everlasting nature of conquest. On his lap, sits a slender blonde man, giggling softly as he lays his head against the crook of the other's neck.

Their eyes are alight and their hands are intertwined. One atop the other, they reach to the board in front them, using only the tips of their fingers to flick the piece of the dark king. The crowned figure falls to it's side with little noise, rolling to the edge and off the table to fall to the floor below with a satisfying chink.

A laugh passes between them again as they rest against each other, implying some kind of peace, before they burst into uncontrolled laughter. Caught in perpetual madness, as lovers are, they fail to contain themselves.

Across the table, in the opponent's place, is an empty chair.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. :/ So this has gone through a heavy rewrite, still not sure how I feel about it. Might get another heavy edit/expansion yet. Weird pairing for me. Kinda digging it though. Considering making this a two shot.  
> Any thoughts are most appreciated!


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